


Balances of Power

by certaintiescertainly



Category: Guild Wars 2 (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, POV Change, Second Person, Slow Burn, Spoilers, WIP
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-01
Updated: 2017-03-02
Packaged: 2018-09-27 16:36:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10032479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/certaintiescertainly/pseuds/certaintiescertainly
Summary: "'Waxy' is the first word that comes to mind, for you."A journey of discoveries: political, personal, and relational. Some dragons may be fought along the way. Canon-compliant, probably. Tags will be updated as content is actually created.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is about my Pact Commander, specifically, but it is written to feasibly be a catch-all male Commander, easily substituted for one's own image, at least, I hope. My focus is to explore the moments in-between game events, and to generally satisfy the personal void left by a game with little time to explore All The Emotions implied by story. There will be spoilers for the base game, and for Heart of Thorns, eventually. Maybe even for events after, but they'll be tagged.
> 
> There's currently no beta reader or editor save myself, and so you'll have to forgive the rough-around-the-edges nature. If I polished the writing forever (and I could, believe you me), it'd never get published.

'Waxy' is the first word that comes to mind, for you, and you nearly giggle, right there, in front of him, on the verge of an important meeting to try and convince a stubborn commander that danger is imminent. 

There isn't much time to contemplate your brief moment of insanity until after, and by then, you are numb with grief. Tybalt's gone. 

You are bad at grief. You keep staring at your own hands. Better than seeing the sympathetic looks other Whispers agents keep giving you. You don't even realize you've been approached until there's a gentle hand on your shoulder, and even then you forget to react. He has to speak before you realize the weight is not something brushed up against you, but a person. A sylvari. /The/ sylvari, the one that didn't know you from the Queen and decided your initiative would help bond together an insane alliance anyways. 

He doesn't even /say/ anything else, you looking up and seeing sympathy in those large, strange, friendly eyes is all it takes for your vision to blur with tears, and you quickly look away, searching for some excuse, some stammered other reason why you're crying. Onions, or saltwater spray, or /something/. You don't have time to get past a 'Sorry--' before he's got one arm wrapped around your shoulders and he's pulling you in. 

By the Six. You're getting hugged by a sylvari Firstborn. Is this a significant diplomatic act for humankind? It might be. 

It’s only once he draws away that you notice you froze in shock, tears halted. He begins an apology. “I’m very sorry, I did not mean--”

“No, no,” you say, “I, ahm, I am normally much better at hugging, really. Thank-you.”

This is the right thing to say, because it makes him smile, gentle, “You’re welcome. You are allowed to grieve, you know. Tybalt was…”

You don’t mean to, but you lose what he says next, because you’re swallowing back more grief, trying not to succumb to the horrid dark knot in your stomach. Unfortunately, he notices it--it must show on your face. He takes one of your hands in both of his, and you use the other to press against your mouth, stifling a sob before it is truly voiced between you.

And that, somehow, is that--the next moments are blurry, but you think you end up very nearly in his lap. He cards his fingers through your hair, in a soothing pattern, and you don’t quite know why until he remarks that human hair is strange to him, and--hunh, of course. It must be. You are as strange to he as he is to you. You are fairly certain you don’t cry more, and once you pull away, he gives that gentle smile again (something about sylvari expressions amplify everything--he looks kinder than your own mother). He tells you, once you’re both sure you won’t fall apart again, that though some of your new allies might disagree, it’s a relief to him, and he hopes it will be to more, that the commander of their new Pact has a big heart. When he doesn’t make a comment about small stature, you do, and he laughs, teeth flashing in the sun. They’re very white--are they enamel, like yours?

What would they feel like? If you kissed--

You blink, and push the thought aside. He doesn’t notice your brief distraction, thank the gods. Chalk it up to all the ribald jokes humans make about relationships with other races. It’s a preoccupation in taverns and barracks--usually funny, sometimes rude, but nonetheless clearly on everyone’s mind. That must be the only reason you wonder. It must be.

After you clean up, and eat something (he insists), you rejoin the first Claw Island troops to leave with you. Somewhere in your mind you muster up something encouraging and confident-sounding to share with them. Forward teams are being organized, and fort locations discussed over maps and more maps. Zhaitan is cursed at and planned against, and who can say which is done more. Your Order Master nods subtly at what you say--and you take that as a good sign, because you’ve forgotten what it was as soon as it leaves your mouth. No matter. The Priory and Vigil might be now more important than before, but it is only your Master’s approval you need, really. She is weighing the same things you are, with the experience of much longer leadership. You would kill for her advice. In some ways, you already have. Hopefully she will not be as subtle in aiding you once among your fellows again.

Waxy. That’s what the leaves that make up his hair look like, and what his skin feels like, underneath those massive gauntlets he normally wears. Well, no, his hands do not quite feel waxy, though it was hard to tell when, for the most part, you came into contact with the leaves and...petals? Of his clothing. He didn’t give off heat, like a human might, and he’d been really fascinated with your own. You’re actually fairly sure he compared you to a cat. A giant hairless one. 

Six. That’s hilarious in retrospect. The Marshal of the Pact is a cat person, and the first thing he did to his Commander was draw a comparison between you and a pet. It’s not the worst way to start an alliance. Not really bad at all.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> POV change! I hope I do Trahearne justice, his perspective is very important to me. 
> 
> If you're checking this out, I welcome you to leave a comment. Feedback will only help me write better fic!

[1325 AE]

He’s something of a mystery, my new commander; but I have, if I dare even write, a decent track record with mysteries. Dogged pursuit of answers has served me well since awakening, that is certain. Given, people are more challenging than the silent, inorganic mysteries of Orr. And then not one of us! Not a child of the Pale Tree. The mystery deepens. I cannot, however, allow myself to be daunted. Certainly not by lack of experience--if I pause to consider that, all will be for naught. 

I am distracted. The Commander is the subject here, not my own burgeoning insecurities. My greatest worry is what likely remains at the forefront of the Pact’s mind as well. His youth. By human standards, even I am young, and he has not lived as long as I, yet. Sylvari are often treated with bemusement, veiled disdain, for our naivete--but so much more the youth of other races! Among his own Order, it may be less of a worry, but the charr call him cub, and the humans, boy, and how will they swallow calling him Commander? Already I have seen pride damaged by it, and I am sure he has not missed the expressions he is given either. He is serious, and bold, intelligent--with a remarkable knack for leadership. This, I hope, will be enough. 

Thank the Mother that he has a heart, too, especially considering his Order. The Vigil, and even many of the Priory, may not feel the same as I about his grief. They might name it weakness. It is not. All the same, it was good of him to avoid others when struck. And better that I found him. No one should bear grief alone, however necessary appearances are. 

I hope to catch him again soon, perhaps share a meal, or at the least, talk. There is much to know--his past, his thoughts, his ideas of the future, both near and far. I hope he will not be guarded around me, but as of now, I cannot know whether or not he will be. He might even be more defensive than before, trying to save face. But I hope not.

I find myself ruminating on what it felt like, to be close to him. Humans are warm by nature, I already knew, but it is very different to be near one in practice than to know in theory that they are warm-blooded. It is a strange sensation, to be sure, but far from unpleasant. I think I compared him to one of my cats, which is a touch embarrassing, but it made him laugh in the midst of mourning, and so I may as well count the observation successful. His hair is very different than ours, too--finer than a sylvari’s almost ever is, and so soft.

On that note, I wonder if touching it was considered over-intimate. He did not seem to mind, but he was distracted. The rules are different when comforting, but I still fear I overstepped my bounds, caught in between sympathy and curiousity. 

I should not worry so. It is unproductive, and easily solved--I can simply ask him if I pushed too far, and get an answer. He was receptive, and I should not assume he will be less so later. 

I have little enough time to write, and I have spent it all on him, instead of the matters of the Pact. My fascination gets ahead of me, I’m afraid. I have a hundred questions for him, and yet I cannot put words to a single one. He is my new Commander, not an object to be studied. But isn’t it vital that we know each other well? The Pact cannot work if its leadership does not gel.

I could muse for eternity and never find out any answers. This is not a problem to be thought through, it is to be talked through. And I will do so. I hope I manage to keep the greater goal of the Pact in mind, and I don’t get too distracted by the newness of discovery. But when have I ever been able to resist that lure?

Time runs short. There is much to do. Letters to write, leaders to persuade, forays into Orr to plan. My Commander is, quite literally, waiting on me to get back to the world. And so, I go.


End file.
